


(The Shirt is Actually Faded Blue)

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Various Adventures of Aramis, Dating Expert. </p>
<p>Or, Why Aramis is Lucky He's Cute as experienced by Porthos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(The Shirt is Actually Faded Blue)

**Author's Note:**

> A random idea JL gave me a million years ago. Finally posting it cause I'm tired of fiddling with it.

**0.**  
If asked, Aramis would say that he is a fantastic flirt and a romantic at heart. 

If asked if this is true, Porthos would snort out the beer he’s drinking and have a coughing fit around his laughter for about thirty seconds while Aramis hovered between being distressed at his wheezing and outraged at his lack of loyalty. 

 

**I.**  
Aramis leans against the wall, says, “So… you want to hang out some time?” 

He’d expected it to maybe be some more work, expected Porthos to engage in the quasi-flirting they’ve been doing for weeks and weeks, expected him to be coy or to tease or to do _something_.

Instead, he says, “Yeah, alright.” 

Aramis doesn’t squint, because that looks ridiculous, but he does regard Porthos with a level of trepidation since the general lack of enthusiasm is disturbing on the best of days. 

“Is that it?” he asks, frowning.

Porthos gives him that smile of his – the one that gets Aramis to actually feel legitimately weak-kneed, the one that lights up his eyes – and says, “What, should I have brought you flowers?” 

Aramis finds he really doesn’t have anything to say to that. 

“Let me get my coat,” Porthos decides. 

“What, _now_?” Aramis protest – he hasn’t gotten himself to look perfect and presentable yet. It’s no good. It can’t be like this, not yet.

“Why not?” Porthos asks with a small shrug, his smile turning a touch shy. “Unless you’re busy?”

“No,” Aramis says, voice slightly breathless. “No, no. Go get your coat. I’ll wait here.”

While Porthos’ back is turned, he attempts to adjust himself against the wall in a way that is suitably alluring. He tries with his shoulder pressed to it, head tilted slightly to the side so he can regard Porthos through his lashes. Then decides that’s too maudlin and tries with his arms crossed and back to the wall, but that looks too guarded. He throws up one arm to lean against his forearm, hand splayed against the wall slightly above his head, hip cocked – but it’s too rehearsed. 

He tries about five more positions before Porthos says from behind him, “Should I give you some time alone with the wall?”

Aramis doesn’t do embarrassed, but that’s a moment in which it comes close to it. 

 

**II.**   
It’s two days later before they have their first proper date beyond just grabbing a cup of coffee while Aramis avoids leaning against a wall and walks only in a way that means Porthos sees his best side.

But then he shows up to the little dive bar where he’s meant to be meeting Porthos and he sees him across the way and Porthos is dressed down and it—

God, it’s too much. Aramis is used to not having to try – he’s used to being able to rely only on his good looks, so he doesn’t know how to handle someone who is, quite frankly, exponentially hotter than he is (not that he’d ever admit it to Porthos, much less on a second date; far too self-deprecating in the end). 

But Aramis shows up to this bar and Porthos is wearing soft, worn jeans and a dark blue shirt beneath a hoodie sweatshirt and Aramis is struggling not to spiral into an internal scream forever more. Because _he does not know how to manage this._

Fuck, was he this hot the last time they talked? Is it possible to become prettier over the course of one day? 

He doesn’t know how to handle this.

The worst part is that Porthos catches sight of him, grins, and waves. And it’s too much. He’s too attractive. It’s physically _painful._

And all Aramis can think is _I should have picked the other shirt._ He’s stuck with an ugly, disgusting grey shirt and now Porthos is standing and approaching him and his shoulders are so wide and his smile is so bright and his hair is curly and perfect and his beard is trimmed and his lips are so damn kissable and _Aramis doesn’t know how to handle this._

He’s ruined everything from the start. He should have picked the other shirt. 

He moves stiffly to the table Porthos has reserved for them, watches dumbly as Porthos sits down from across from him and just grins. He must ask Aramis is he wants a drink and likely Aramis told him some kind of wooden response because a little while later there are drinks in front of them.

It’s a little dive bar, just before the rush of after-work patrons – it’s quiet and intimate and would be perfect for a date if Aramis hadn’t already ruined it by wearing the ugly grey shirt while Porthos is a perfect paragon in shades of blue. 

Porthos is chatting with him, smiling at him, and all Aramis can think is that Porthos must think him an idiot. 

It’s with a sinking realization that _he must think that Aramis didn’t upgrade his look enough_ while Porthos is sitting there, devastatingly hot. He didn’t _know_ it was possible for Porthos to look attractive in just a sweatshirt rather than a button down, but _God_ what if he gets even hotter? What if he were to wear a suit? _What if he took his clothes off?_

He’s fidgeting. His fingers slip down the condensation over the surface of his pint glass. 

 

**III.**  
They’re halfway through the date when Aramis explodes, “I’m sorry I’m just wasting your time! I know my shirt is terrible!” 

Porthos stops mid-sentence, stares at him, tilts his head in a way that is frankly too endearing, and then asks, “… Uh, what?” 

“You’ll move on I’m sure,” Aramis says, dramatically, he _knows_ he’s being dramatic it isn’t his fault and he can’t stop and it’s already ruined, he knows it all is, it’s just too late. “But know that I’ll forever appreciate just how lovely you are.” 

Porthos gives him a disbelieving look and then laughs. But Aramis just keeps babbling and the smile slowly fades as he realizes that, through that babbling, Aramis is having something of an identity crisis. 

“Oh – hey, wait,” he says, reaches out, touches Aramis’ arm just as Aramis is about to stand up and leave dramatically. “What are you doing?”

“It was a gift from my – my _friend_ , Adele,” Aramis continues, can logically tell himself he needs to shut the hell up but it’s clearly not working. “She said it looked nice on me but what was I _thinking_ you obviously favor _blue_! _Blue_ is my favorite color why did I even pick this grey one, grey is hardly a color at all, really! Blue is your favorite color, it clearly is!” 

Porthos just looks vaguely overwhelmed, likely unsure how to handle Aramis at his most manic and ridiculous. “Um,” he says, politely, because he is a kind soul and not going to throw Aramis out of the bar on his ass, “Isn’t that a blue shirt?” 

“Porthos,” Aramis says with no small amount of frustration, “ _Focus._ ” 

Porthos throws down some money on the counter and stands, not letting go of Aramis’ arm – though his touch is gentle. “Let’s go get some air, okay? You need to chill the fuck out.” 

 

**IV.**  
Once outside, Aramis is expecting Porthos to just take off – because what self-respecting person wouldn’t just get the hell out at the nearest opportunity? With some air to breathe, Aramis is churning through that mortification that he _just freaked out over a shirt._

Aramis doesn’t do embarrassed – but if he did, this would certainly be the moment.

But Porthos sticks around, hands in his pockets and leaning back against the wall while Aramis breathes out slowly, still feeling fidgety and jittery, but otherwise at least no longer rambling. 

“… I don’t think anyone’s ever been nervous around me before,” Porthos finally offers. “I mean, not like this.” 

Aramis makes a mournfully distressed sound at his own foolishness. 

“I mean,” Porthos says, slowly, and there’s a flush to his cheeks and a small, hopeful little smile. “I’m used to people being kinda intimidated, you know? Yours is more – I dunno…”

“More, ‘You’re so wonderful and I’m not’?” Aramis asks.

“Sure,” Porthos says. “But I mean – I don’t think that’s right.” 

“It absolutely is,” Aramis says, stiffly, and at least restrains himself from launching into a spiel about how gracious and wonderful Porthos is to think that his shirt is blue rather than grey. 

Porthos gives him a small smile. “Want to take a walk?” 

 

**V.**  
At the end of the date, several hours later, Porthos is staring up at the ceiling after they’ve fucked each other about three times on three different surfaces, culminating in the bed. 

Then he says, “… You know, my favorite color is red, actually.” 

Aramis looks up, outraged. “But – you were all blue! You’re always wearing blue! What do you _mean_ I didn’t read that properly? Take that back!” 

Porthos is laughing, lifts his hand – heavy and warm and callused – and presses it to Aramis’ mouth. It is a welcomed weight and Aramis absolutely does not melt beneath being touched so intimately over something so mundane. 

“Aramis,” Porthos says with a laugh, “ _you_ like blue.”

Aramis blinks at him once. Then twice. Then makes a distressed little, “Oh,” into his hand. He closes his eyes. “… Oh.” 

On their third date, Aramis wears red.


End file.
